


hard to be soft, tough to be tender

by liketheroad



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-10
Updated: 2011-04-10
Packaged: 2017-10-17 21:55:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/181583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liketheroad/pseuds/liketheroad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hate him, love him.  It doesn’t matter.  He’s still Arthur’s.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hard to be soft, tough to be tender

**Act I**

The first time he ever sees Arthur, he’s laughing. His whole face is split open, back arching into it. Eames has never seen anything like it, he’s never seen someone laugh with such abandon, with such intense pleasure.

His entire attention is locked onto Arthur’s shaking shoulders and deep, dizzying laugh, so much so that whole minutes pass before Eames notices the people Arthur is standing with.

There are three of them out on the balcony of the posh hotel Eames has recently charmed his way into. Arthur is in the middle; to his left stands a woman whose beauty could only fail to attract Eames’ immediate attention when next to someone like Arthur. To Arthur’s right is a man with terrible facial hair and enough intelligence in his eyes to make up for it. Eames can guess their names as well as he’s already guessed Arthur’s - he’s clearly watching the rather infamous Cobbs and their point man, the best in the business, all three of them.

What’s unexpected is how happy they all are, how very much they manage to look like the only three people in the whole world, even among such a glamorous crowd.

Eames can pick Arthur out from Dominic and Mallorie because he’s so strikingly young, because even as he stands between them, Arthur is standing apart, fading into the background whenever the Cobbs look at each other.

He knows their names because he’s here to find them, here to convince them they should hire him for their next job, and for the next one after that.

He made the decision because he’s tired of architects fucking up the details when everyone in their business should know that’s where the devil is, because he isn’t interested breaking himself out of the back of yet another cop car because his point man managed to overlook the fact that their mark was actually the illegitimate son of an Italian diplomat who was still in touch with his mother.

But in this moment, watching Arthur laugh, Eames forgets his reasons for being there, forgets his reasons for everything, in fact, and decides he doesn’t want to work with Arthur and the Cobbs.

In this moment, Eames decides what he really wants is to steal Arthur from them instead.

\---

It turns out to be more difficult than he originally anticipated.

Eames is charming for a living, but Arthur seems to find this to be a character flaw rather than a virtue. And while Eames is as skilled an extractor as they come, he doesn’t quite have the edge on Cobb; he has no flare for architecture, for one, which seems to be an unforgivable weakness in Arthur’s mind. The fact that Eames can conjure up a convincing forgery of almost any person, it seems, is nothing in the face of his inability to dream up more than the most rudimentary dreamscapes.

For his part, Eames can’t understand what it is about buildings Arthur seems to find so much more compelling than people. He must, though. It’s the only reasoning Eames can imagine for Arthur’s stubborn preference for Dom, despite the fact that Dom takes Arthur shamelessly for granted while Eames wants nothing more than to do the opposite.

All the more discouraging is the rapid realization, cemented after only a few weeks under the Cobbs’ employ, that his first impression of Arthur was decidedly the exception, rather than the rule. Arthur, it transpires, isn’t at all prone to the kind of happiness Eames was once so fortunate to observe. When he works, he rarely smiles, and he _never_ smiles at Eames. In fact, he routinely voices his objections to Eames working with them at all, even though Mal’s say so is all Arthur ever needs to quiet his protests.

On the job, the only time Arthur permits Eames to be in his presence, he is clamped down so tight it’s almost hard to be sure he feels anything at all. As rare as his smiles are, he never laughs, except when Mal is whispering sweet nothings in his ear. He wears suits like armor, with the same ancient reverence coupled with brutal necessity; Arthur fastens his cuff-links and dons bespoke suits as though he’s preparing for war.

Arthur isn’t reckless, isn’t hedonistic, isn’t easily amused or even easily satisfied. But he is relentless; in that, at least, he’s exactly as Eames first witnessed him, extrapolating all the wrong things from a laugh so full and wild that it had shaken Arthur’s whole body even as it gripped Eames by the heart and refused, even now, to let go.

Whatever Arthur does, he puts his whole self into it, every ounce of his energy and his heart. It’s what makes him so stunningly good at his job, what makes the suits and the reflexes seem like window dressing, beautiful but superfluous when Arthur’s heart is the real prize, the thing he keeps so well hidden, but what so clearly drives him in all things.

What becomes clear is that while Arthur admires loyalty and competency above all else, there’s a tension within him that speaks volumes to the short supply of both he’s likely been raised to expect.

It’s this loyalty that poses the real dilemma, for Eames. The clashes in their characters and preferences, he trusts, could be smoothed over. All the more enjoyable, though, to keep them as they are, and simply channel their frustrations with each other into something real and alive, sealed with mouths rather than fists.

The real trouble, then, is not how rarely Arthur reveals anything about himself that isn’t related to his work, how rarely the reckless, laughing boy Eames had fallen irrevocably in love with allows himself to be seen. No. The real problem, at least from where Eames is sitting, is that when Arthur _does_ display emotions of any kind, they are saved almost exclusively for Dom and Mal. Just like everything else about Arthur.

Arthur is like a fly in honey, caught in the sweet sound of Mal’s voice and the fascinating labyrinth of Dom’s mind. He’s so busy chasing after Dom and Mal that Arthur doesn’t even seem to care that Eames is always just a step behind him, waiting to catch Arthur when he inevitably falls.

\---

He’s been in Turkey for months. Istanbul is one of his favorite cities in the world, but the heat is finally starting to get to him. This is what Eames tells himself, anyway.

The heat.

Not just that he hasn’t heard from Arthur, or even Dom and Mal, in all that time he’s been away.

\---

He travels to Los Angeles, even though that particular destination rather defeats the purpose of lying to himself so consistently about his reasons for leaving Turkey.

No matter, he’s there now; on Dom and Mal’s doorstep, to be exact. Not because he doesn’t know Arthur’s address (he does) or because he’s afraid Arthur will punch him by way of hello (although that’s very likely) or even because he’s still trying to keep up the facade that he’s here for any reason other than to be near Arthur (he gave up on that halfway through the flight when he found himself ordering Arthur’s favorite brand of whiskey and staring at the glass rather pathetically instead of drinking it).

He turns up at Dom and Mal’s instead of Arthur’s, not for any of the above reasons, but because he needs to remind himself, immediately upon arrival, that there’s a reason he’s stayed away as long as he has, that there’s a reason he shouldn’t be here, even now.

He has to remind himself who he is up against.

When the door finally opens, after Eames has spent a good five minutes knocking, he has to laugh.

Because it’s not Dom or Mal opening their own door. That would have been too easy, too obvious.

Instead, it’s Arthur, looking disheveled and happy, his hair a mess, dress shirt untucked and sweater-vest on backwards.

It’s been three years since Eames has seen Arthur look this happy, and yet again, he has to accept that this happiness has absolutely nothing to do with him.

\---

“What are you doing here?” Arthur demands, his smile long ago replaced by an unwelcoming frown.

Eames is sitting on a very tasteful sofa in the Cobbs’ living room. There are children’s toys on the floor. He hadn’t even realized Mal was pregnant, and yet she seems to have already produced the baby. No one has suggested Eames hold the little girl, thank god.

“Don’t be rude, Arthur,” Mal says, handing Eames a cup of tea. She turns away quickly, but not quickly enough for Eames to miss the teasing sparkle in Mal’s eyes or the smirk on her lips.

Eames’ affections may be unwanted by Arthur, but Mal has never been shy about making her support for Eames’ attempts at courting known. Eames often wonders whether Mal’s approval would be enough to push Arthur towards him if her enthusiasm weren’t matched by Dom’s narrow-eyed disapproval. It doesn’t matter - he’s sure even Mal wouldn’t be quite so enthusiastic if she knew that Eames meant to steal Arthur as well as win his heart.

“I have a job,” Eames answers, finally addressing Arthur’s put-upon hostility. “I’d like you all to work it with me.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, and Dom puts a hand on Mal’s knee. From the way they’ve got her surrounded, Eames surmises it’s her decision to make.

“Tell us about it,” she says, even as Arthur groans and Dom’s face gets pinched and disapproving.

Ignoring Arthur and Dom, Eames explains the job, relatively simple on the surface, but with plenty of reason to expect the unexpected and certainly enough to justify Eames calling in the best. Come to think of it, this is a far better excuse for leaving Istanbul than the heat, and Eames would have comforted himself with that thought had this lie felt any more palatable than the last. Plausible or not, he’s past the point of pretending now.

Mal is clearly delighted by the thought of working in Rome, where the job will necessarily take place, but Dom is against it and from the way Arthur paces the room, hands on his hips, Eames feels that it’s safe to assume the vote is two to one in favor of telling Eames to piss off.

Luckily, he was right about Mal being the deciding vote.

Eames loves that about her; life is never a democracy with people like Mal in it.

\---

Mal has changed since she’s had a baby, just not in the ways one might expect.

She’s more reckless, more daring, and when she takes down projections, she’s more vicious.

When she returns to them covered in blood, it doesn’t seem to matter that Dom has been able to successfully extract the information they came for while she was busy distracting the mark’s subconscious. It doesn’t matter that she’s grinning, triumphant, waiting to be congratulated on a job well done. It doesn’t matter that between them, they now have half a million coming their way for what amounted to two weeks of work.

Nothing could feel like a victory in the face of Arthur’s tense shoulders and Dom’s worried, watchful eyes.

\---

They go out for celebratory drinks anyway, because Mal insists, ignoring the heavy mood that has fallen over her men. Eames feels impolitic, including himself among “her men”, but it’s true, if only by extension. Mal has Arthur wrapped around her finger and Arthur owns Eames the same way, so in the end, it still boils down to Eames going along with whatever she says.

Tonight, this means dancing with whomever Mal picks out for him, and for this reason his partners are exclusively sleek, dark-haired boys barely passing for men and wispy, fey women who look bored the entire time they dance with him.

Eames wonders whether it should bother him more than it does that the people he’s dancing with are only there because Mal asked them to be.

\---

At the end of the night, he helps Arthur and Dom pour Mal into a cab, and the hard look in Arthur’s eyes is enough for Eames to restrain himself to a muted, “good night,” letting any endearments or double entendres he might have had planned die on his tongue.

\---

He goes to the airport bar instead of his hotel, and methodically drinks the rest of the night away.

In the morning, he feels a hand on his shoulder.

He doesn’t have to turn up and look. He knows from the weight of the hand alone that it’s Arthur.

Wordlessly, Arthur slips onto the stool beside Eames. He orders a coffee and a glass of water, and when they arrive, Arthur pushes both of them in front of Eames, taking away his half-drunk measure of scotch.

Eames is too tired to protest. Not that he ever does, not really, when it comes to Arthur.

Just when Eames is sure they’re going to sit together in silence for the rest of their lives, Arthur speaks.

“You’re wrong, you know,” is all he says, voice flat, emotionless.

“About what, pet?” Eames asks, raising his eyebrows and then taking a dutiful sip of water, as if to earn Arthur’s continued conversation with good behavior.

“It’s not Mal you have to be worried about.”

Eames is more than a little stunned, though he’s far from sure he understands what they’re talking about. It’s not the alcohol that’s clouding his thinking; as usual, Arthur’s presence is doing a good enough job of that all on its own.

“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” he ventures honestly, after a long pause.

Arthur shrugs, and after brief consideration, he downs the rest of Eames’ drink.

“I know you think Mal and Dom are standing between us, keeping us from having some kind of grand romance, but you’re wrong. We wouldn’t. It’s not that I love them; it’s that I _don’t_ love you.”

Eames sighs, and he smiles even though there’s nothing but bitterness in it. “Oh, but you _would_ , darling. If only you let yourself try.”

Arthur shakes his head. “You’re wrong.”

Eames just sips his coffee, not even looking at Arthur anymore.

He waits until Arthur has left to say, “Well, one of us is.”

\---

He takes a flight to Chicago.

He’s always heard the pizza is worth the trip.

He stays for a month, hoping Mal will call him, hoping she won’t.

Hoping it will be Arthur who calls him instead, knowing he won’t.

 **Interlude**

Eames isn’t one to admit defeat lightly but he’s no martyr. Three and a half years chasing Arthur unsuccessfully is enough for one lifetime.

He doesn’t forget about Arthur, doesn’t stop loving him, doesn’t lose his conviction that they are, whether they ever will be or not, meant to be together and meant to do great things together.

He doesn’t forget, but he moves on. It’s one thing to wait for Arthur, to wish for him, but to pursue him against his wishes has never been part of the plan. Their parting, and the protracted silence that followed, is finally enough to put Eames off the chase.

It doesn’t matter, in the end, that Eames is sure he could love Arthur much better than Dom and Mal could. It only matters that Arthur doesn’t want him to.

 **Act II**

Eames is living quite contentedly in Mombasa. He has a thriving career in extraction and forgery, and has finally pieced together a crew reliable enough that he doesn’t yearn for the bad old days working with Arthur and the Cobbs. He keeps his operations simple, keeps his attachments with his crew strictly professional, save for his chemist, Yusuf.

Yusuf is more of a silent partner, really, an equal in his own right, so Eames doesn’t think he can be faulted for blurring the lines a little by falling into an easy friendship with the other man. Yusuf doesn’t go into the field with them, at any rate, so there’s little worry that Eames’ preference for him will muck up a job.

Yusuf is also an exceptionally good cook, which he claims any good chemist ought to be, and he’s the most inquisitive person Eames has ever known. These are two qualities Eames finds infinitely attractive in a person, so it’s no wonder he likes to keep Yusuf around. It also doesn’t hurt that Yusuf skims generously off Eames’ earnings, something Eames pretends not to know about until his gambling debts get the better of him, and then all it takes is discrete word to Yusuf and within the day they’ll be mysteriously paid.

It’s a fine arrangement all around, and Eames is content, if not particularly happy. He has one friend and many lovers, and when he gets bored with work, he steals something for himself, something strange and beautiful from the waking world to remind himself that he can work and live without dreams.

\---

When he feels someone at his back and the scent and proceeding footsteps inform him it’s Cobb, Eames runs his thumb over his totem automatically.

When he’s satisfied that he isn’t dreaming, he can’t decide whether he’s disappointed.

Dom makes a few bad jokes as they make their way to a secluded table on the terrace, and Eames flirts his way through the conversation, careful not to react with anything more than amused derision when Dom finally mentions Arthur.

It isn’t until after they’ve ditched the corporate thugs chasing them that it occurs to Eames that he should offer his condolences.

Dom waves him off. “Thank you for the flowers, though.”

Eames nods a little, smiling to let Dom know he’s impressed. He had sent the arrangement anonymously, careful not to pick any colours vibrant enough to give himself away, but apparently it hadn’t been enough. It was probably Arthur who guessed, or so Eames would like to pretend.

When he brings Dom to Yusuf, Eames doesn’t quite know why he’s bothering. With Mal gone, there’s even less chance of ever making Arthur his, not when all of Arthur’s hardwired, hard-won loyalty will be so completely attuned, now, only to Dom.

\---

Arthur isn’t happy to see him, but that’s alright. Eames isn’t particularly happy to see him either.

He puts on a good show of it, all the same. Appearances are everything in Eames’ world. He kicks Arthur’s chair, mocks Arthur’s contributions and sarcastically accepts compliments dripping with condescension.

The new architect looks at them as though they’re engaging in a mildly amusing game of schoolyard hair pulling, but she’s mostly too distracted trying, for whatever her reasons, to fix Cobb, to notice what’s really going on.

It takes Eames awhile to figure it out, himself.

\---

Eames is standing out on the balcony of the hotel suite he’s booked for the duration of this job.

It’s dusk, and Paris is almost too lovely to hold his interest, so Eames focuses on the imperfections below to keep from getting bored and going down to the hotel bar, or worse, hunting down a card game.

Arthur would kill him if Eames revealed their presence to the wrong people just because he hadn’t been adequately captivated by the sun setting over one of the most beautiful cities in the world.

So he smokes and watches the sky darken until he hears the door slide open, and Arthur steps out beside him onto the balcony.

Eames doesn’t look at him. Arthur leans with his elbows against the railing, not looking at Eames either.

“She jumped, you know. She jumped, but everyone thinks he pushed her. On some level, even Dom thinks that.”

“You disagree?” Eames asks, managing to keep his voice steady despite the way Arthur’s sudden presence has set his heart racing.

Arthur shrugs. “Reality was never really enough for Mal, and after getting lost in limbo, it was never going to be. Dom thinks he’s responsible for it, that he’s the one who infected her mind, but I was paying a lot better attention than him, those last few months. Even before they went into limbo, she was already gone.”

“Is that why you’re still so set against this, why you don’t think inception is possible?”

Arthur shrugs again. “Maybe. Maybe I just don’t want it to be.”

“Why not? Don’t you want Cobb to be able to get home?” Eames can’t imagine Arthur wanting anything else. Except maybe to be able to go home with him.

“Of course I do.”

“They why?” Eames presses.

Arthur frowns, still looking out at the city instead of at Eames.

“Because if you can plant an idea in someone else’s mind, just like you can steal one, then nothing is sacred.” He turns to Eames then, smiling thinly. “If god is dead, then everything is permitted.”

Eames chuckles darkly. “You sound so disappointed. And here I’d always thought you were already quite cheerfully nihilistic, darling.”

Arthur’s smile sharpens, and there’s no trace of humor in his voice at all when he says,

“You never did know me half as well as you thought.”

“Perhaps not, but I loved you anyway.”

Arthur shakes his head.

“You can’t love something you don’t understand.”

\---

“She wasn’t a bad person,” Arthur volunteers, another time. “She just didn’t want the life she had to be her only one, didn’t want to be limited like that. She never wanted to be someone’s mother, someone’s wife, but she couldn’t help loving Dom, and she tried to be what he wanted, tried to love the life he wanted. But she wanted magic, wanted the dream to be what was real. In dreams she never had to choose, decide. She could have it all and be responsible for nothing, all at once.”

\---

“I met her first, you know. Before either of us met Dom. I thought I was in love with her, but I was wrong. It was selfish, how I felt about her. To love, you have to be selfless - you have to live for the other person. That’s what Dom and Mal taught me.”

“Look at what it cost them,” Eames points out, somewhat despite himself. “Love might be worth living for, but it’s not worth dying for.”

Arthur just shakes his head.

“It’s the only thing that is.”

\---

“My father died when I was a child. I don’t remember him. My mother was very proud, but her life disappointed her. She never loved me as much as she loved him, although she did try.”

“What happened to her?”

“She died, too.”

“How old were you?”

“Fourteen.”

It shouldn’t be as surprising as it is. When he met Arthur, he was already fiercely independent, and he couldn’t have been more than 18 or 19.

“What did you do, when she was gone? Where did you go?”

“Nowhere. I stayed in Detroit, and stole what I needed until I learned how to earn it instead.”

Eames has to laugh at that. “By stealing ideas instead of foodstuffs?”

Arthur smiles too, and he almost looks like he means it. “Extraction came later.”

“What did you mean, then?”

Instead of answering, Arthur smiles again, almost feral this time, and asks,

“Who do you think taught a professor’s daughter and his favorite student how to shoot a gun?”

\---

These evening visits become a nightly ritual.

And in the day, they work and bicker and fight each other tooth and nail, and it’s everything Eames ever hoped it could be, he and Arthur working together. It’s different without Mal, with Dom so close to the edge. No one is there to take away Arthur’s attention or to remind Arthur where his true loyalties lie, and in the face of it, he turns to Eames, competing with him, planning with him, until Eames can almost pretend it’s their operation, their team, not Dom’s.

And at night, Arthur comes to him, unbidden, and they stand out on the balcony talking until morning comes, until Arthur’s voice is hoarse and Eames has smoked all his cigarettes. Until Eames realizes that Arthur was right. He can’t say he loves Arthur, not when the person he’d thought Arthur to be doesn’t even exist.

\---

By the time Robert Fischer Senior dies, Eames knows that Arthur’s last name is Lowe, that his favorite color is yellow even though he never wears it, that he hates the morning but loves the night, that he would live in New York if he could, but can’t return for reasons he alludes to in a manner that indicates he would likely meet a violent end if he did. Likewise, Eames learns Arthur can’t go back to Detroit, where he was born and raised, for similar reasons, and that Arthur has more aliases than even Eames does.

He learns that Arthur hates the opera but used to go with Mal every year because Dom could never stay awake. He learns that Arthur taught himself to hot-wire a car when he was 11 and to drive when he was 13. He learns that Arthur loves olives and is allergic to shellfish, that he hates ice cream but has taught himself how to perfectly make creme brulee, not because it’s his favorite dessert, but because it was Mal’s. He learns that Arthur has slept with neither Dom nor Mal, but that Mal used to let him kiss her goodnight every evening until she met Dom.

He learns that Arthur hates puns but will always appreciate a well constructed riddle, that he loves doing crosswords but hates the way newsprint ink stains his fingers.

He learns that when he asks Arthur a question, Arthur will always answer honestly.

Still, Eames waits until the night before they’re going to fly to LA before asking, “Why are you telling me all this?”

Arthur looks a little surprised Eames has to ask. A little disappointed. It makes something sour burn against the back of Eames’ throat.

“We have to know each other intimately, know each other’s secrets, weaknesses. That way, if we’re separated, or captured, you’ll have what you need to distinguish a forgery from the real me. You’ll know which questions to ask, which people to avoid. It’s the only way to have any kind of security. If you’re going to be my new extractor, then--”

“Wait one moment, Arthur. Who said anything about me being your new extractor?”

For the first time, the confident, cool look Arthur has worn every evening falters, if only for a moment, before he schools his features once again into impassive calm.

“It’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it? For the two of us to become a team?”

Yes, but-- “I always got the distinct impression that was the last thing _you_ wanted, darling.”

Arthur shakes his head. “I only work with the best. After this job, if we’re successful, Dom’s going to retire. That leaves you.”

“You flatter me,” Eames responds reflexively, his words wry and mocking in a way he doesn’t really mean.

“I was in this long before Mal and Dom were, and I’m not leaving it just because Mal is gone and Dom never really had a taste for it.”

“I’ve seen Cobb build - surely you’re not saying he doesn’t love it.”

Nevermind that Dom’s projection of Mal stopped him from being the best years ago, nevermind both of them know Arthur’s loyalty reaches far deeper than that.

Still, Arthur nods, graciously conceding the point.

“It’s just the danger he’s never loved, the illegality. That was always Mal, wanting to be con artists, thieves. It appealed to her romantic side. Dom just wanted her.”

“And you?”

“Like I said, I only want to work with the best.”

“And now that’s me.”

Arthur grins meanly.

Eames might hate him a little bit, in that moment.

“Congratulations, you’re finally getting what you wanted.”

Eames considers punching him the face, but decides Arthur doesn’t deserve the satisfaction.

“I loathe you, darling,” he says, instead.

Arthur nods with grim satisfaction.

“Now you’re getting it.”

\---

None of them die, and in Eames’ opinion, that is bloody miraculous. To hell with Arthur and with Dostoyevsky. If the fact that they were able to successfully perform inception and make it out alive and sane isn’t proof of some kind of god, Eames doesn’t know what is.

 **Interlude**

He doesn’t hate Arthur, not exactly. He just doesn’t particularly like him, either.

 **Act III**

They’re an excellent team, far better ***as a pair than they ever were when working together with Dom and Mal, or even with the rest of the inception crew.

They don’t work with any of them again.

Ariadne goes back to school, prefers the legal route - studying with Miles, keeping in touch with Cobb.

Dom really does retire, and Eames watches the change in Arthur’s shoulders as they leave Dom’s house: the muscles loosen like a great weight has been lifted, like Arthur has finally set down the world he’s been holding on his shoulders through sheer force of will.

There’s something gruff and unsettling about the way Dom claps Eames on the shoulder and says, “Take care of him,” as though that’s within Eames’ power, as though Arthur would let him.

He nods anyway, and promises Cobb he’ll try.

Yusuf goes back to Mombasa, and just shakes his head when Eames halfheartedly tries to convince him not to.

“Be well, my friend,” is all Yusuf says, looking over Eames’ shoulder at Arthur as they say their final good-byes.

Eames is even less sure he’ll be able to keep that promise than he is about the one he made to Cobb.

\---

Without Cobb, Arthur is stripped of responsibility, and Eames is amazed by how well it suits.

He’s ruthless, reckless, choosing jobs that almost always threaten the edges of sanity, but there’s something nearly joyful in the way he hurls them both into danger, in the steely confidence that carries them through, like Arthur already knows that nothing can stop them.

A few months later, they perform another inception, but it’s nothing like the first: no beloved friend’s freedom hangs in the balance, no global balance of power is at stake. It’s hardly an important job, not even a particularly well-paying one, but Eames knows why Arthur picks it, knows why he agrees.

After what they accomplished in Robert Fischer’s mind, nothing else quite satisfies. One doesn’t quickly get over the desire to feel like a god.

\---

Arthur doesn’t wear suits anymore. He trades in his old uniform for a new old, faded jeans and leather jackets, patterned button-up shirts and longer, messier hair.

It takes a while, but Eames eventually realizes Arthur is changing to match him, to blend in at his side the way he must have, once upon a time, with the elegance of the Cobbs.

\---

They’re in a pub in Lancaster, where they’ve been holed up for a month following a very successful but very violent job. Arthur is nursing a gunshot wound to the shoulder, and Eames is sporting a new scar across the left side of his face. He goes into dreams alone, sometimes, just to see himself as he used to be.

He can’t decide which face he prefers.

Arthur returns to their table with two more beers and shots to match. He hands Eames his with a slight smile.

“The bartender wants to sleep with you, if you’re interested,” he says blandly, sitting back down.

Eames doesn’t even bother to look up and see which bartender he’s talking about. “I’m not.”

Arthur makes a disapproving face. “Why not?”

“You know why not, darling.”

Hate him, love him. It doesn’t matter. He’s still Arthur’s.

“I’m not doing this with you,” Arthur says, as though it makes any difference.

Eames downs his shot. If Arthur’s not quick enough, Eames is going to take his, too.

Perhaps sensing this, Arthur swallows his whiskey cleanly and chases it with a sip of beer.

“I’m done mixing business with pleasure,” Arthur reminds him curtly, his eyes betraying only the slightest flicker of regret.

“A good thing we give each other no pleasure, then,” Eames says with a strained, weary smile.

Arthur says nothing, but a few moments later, he nudges Eames’ beer closer to him, and Eames accepts it as the only apology he’s going to get.

He takes a long drink, and tries not to care about the way the gesture relaxes the tension in Arthur’s face, just a little.

\---

In Johannesburg, Arthur sleeps with a leggy blond who looks remarkably like one of Eames’ favorite forgeries.

Eames retaliates by getting spectacularly drunk, and stays that way long enough to miss the meeting they’re meant to have to choose their next job.

Arthur finds him three days later, still hungover, in a hotel room dank enough that Eames is amazed Arthur is willing to set foot inside.

The look Arthur gives him when he breaks down the door, frantic with relief, is enough to stun Eames into good behavior for the next few months.

\---

They start sleeping together after that.

They fuck like they used to fight, back when they could afford to, when they could bicker and cut into each other with words and fists. Now, too much depends on them working in sync to allow for those kinds of games, and Arthur takes to Eames’ naked body like it’s another battle to be won.

It relieves tension and gives them an opportunity to learn each other in another way. Arthur probably thinks about it that way, like it’s research, a necessary concession to the ever important job.

\---

At Christmas, Arthur flies back to the states to see Cobb and his children.

Eames goes home to his family in London, lets his mother fuss over him while he spoils his sisters and their children with extravagant gifts. He takes some satisfaction in making them happy, but most of it comes from knowing he’s spending his money in a way that Arthur would find unacceptably sentimental.

On New Year’s Eve, Arthur calls him.

Eames takes the call out on the terrace of his family home, lighting a fag because it seems only appropriate.

“I have a new job for us,” Arthur says, his voice clear and sharp, even across the faulty reception of an overseas mobile call.

“Of course you do,” Eames says, wishing he’d brought out his cup of rum-soaked eggnog.

“It’s in Nairobi,” Arthur says, suddenly sounding uncertain, not like himself at all. Arthur clears his throat. “I thought we could go to Mombasa, once the job was done. See Yusuf.”

“You barely spoke three words to Yusuf the entire time we worked with him,” Eames points out, exhausted already.

“I just thought,” Arthur cuts himself off viciously, and Eames can imagine the frustrated look on his face.

“Fine, we’ll take the extraction in Montreal, instead,” he says when Eames stays silent.

“And put up with the butchered language they call French? Perish the thought. No, let’s go to Kenya.”

Arthur sighs across the phone, and for a minute, Eames can almost imagine he’s smiling.

“I’ll meet you there,” Arthur says, his voice uncharacteristically fond, and then he hangs up.

In the silence that follows, Eames can’t help but wonder if there is something important to be read into the timing of Arthur’s call, especially when his contemplation is interrupted by the cheering of his family inside, celebrating the new year.

Unlikely as it seems, he wonders if maybe Arthur called, on this night instead of on any other, because he’s been missing Eames.

\---

It’s hot in Nairobi, but that should go without saying.

Eames is dressed for it, linen shirt halfway unbuttoned, light cotton slacks and sandals. He had considered wearing socks with the sandals, just to offend Arthur when he eventually arrives, but the discomfort wasn’t worth the frown it would likely produce on Arthur’s face. There are easier ways to get under Arthur’s skin.

He’s reading a local paper, trying to re-familiarize himself with the language, when Arthur finally sits down beside him.

They’re on yet another balcony, in yet another one of Eames’ hotel suites. He’s tempted to tell Arthur that they have to stop meeting like this.

But then Arthur puts a hand on Eames’ knee, and just leaves it there, and Eames doesn’t say anything at all.

\---

The job is easy, in and out, and Eames is more than a little surprised Arthur agreed to take it.

When he asks Arthur about it, Arthur shrugs tetchily.

“Not everything has to be hard,” he says, making no sense at all.

“Everything with you is hard, Arthur,” Eames points out exasperatedly. “I think you’d go mad if you weren’t constantly pushing yourself to the brink.”

Arthur just looks at him, and then down at his hands.

“Dom was happy,” is what he eventually says, startling Eames all the more.

His surprise shows in his driving, and the car they’re taking to Mombasa veers dangerously off the road for a minute.

Arthur immediately grabs the steering wheel to bring them back on course. If his hand happens to be covering Eames’, neither of them mentions it.

“What?” Eames comes up with.

“He was happy,” Arthur says, with something like wonder in his voice. “I haven’t seen him like that in years.”

“Why didn’t you stay with him, then, if it was so wonderful,” Eames mutters, allowing himself to sound bitter.

Arthur doesn’t seem to take it that way, though, and instead looks at him sincerely, and says, “Dom was happy there, but I wasn’t.”

“Are you ever?” Eames asks, because really - he had come to understand happiness was rather beside the point when it came to Arthur.

Arthur just shrugs. “I don’t know. I think I could be.”

Eames takes the upcoming turn a little more sharply than necessary, but he doesn’t roll the car, so he doesn’t think anyone can hold it against him.

“Well find yourself a wife, then, have some ankle-bitters of your very own, if you’re not content to share Cobb’s.”

“You’re not listening to me,” Arthur says, his voice going brittle with frustration.

Eames just smiles thinly, eyes on the road.

“I never have, darling. No point in starting now.”

\---

In Mombasa, Arthur idles outside, talking to an arms dealer Yusuf is distantly related to, while Eames and Yusuf have tea in his workshop.

“You look tired,” Yusuf says, voice full of chiding concern.

Eames cracks his knuckles, wishing he had the energy to be more convincing. Yusuf shouldn’t have to worry about Eames, he’s always taken that responsibility far more seriously than Eames has ever deserved.

“I’m fine, old boy,” he says, reminding himself that the secret to a good lie is believing it’s true.

Yusuf just gets up, snapping his fingers, saying, “I have just the thing.”

It turns out to be a new compound, lucid dreaming without the help of the PASIV.

“You can’t build, but you can still control your mind, decide which memories you want to go into. Maybe go back to that night in Calcutta, with those twins who liked you so much,” Yusuf suggests, looking bizarrely maternal as he puts Eames under.

Eames nods agreeably, but he already knows where he’ll be going, and so he doesn’t have to bother feeling surprised when he wakes up in a blurry hotel, the edges of the room and the other people in it nothing more than faded shadows.

None of it matters, he’s only here for Arthur.

He watches Arthur laugh, his body surrendering totally to his happiness, and Eames almost finds himself wishing he could forget this moment, forget he ever saw Arthur like this.

Maybe if he could, he would finally be able to let Arthur go.

\---

“It wasn’t Mal, was it?” Eames asks somewhere over the Mediterranean. “That made you this way, it wasn’t her death at all.”

“Nothing made me this way,” Arthur replies, looking out the plane window. “It’s just the way I am.”

“I think I’m finally starting to get that,” Eames says, wondering why it feels like such an accomplishment.

Maybe it’s the way Arthur covers his jaw with his hand, not quite well enough to cover over the smile that makes him look, for one absurd second, like he’s actually happy.

\---

Arthur won’t sleep with him anymore, hasn’t since they parted for the holidays. But he’s strangely solicitous with Eames now, almost like he’s courting Eames, in a bizarre reversal of a normal relationship.

Arthur holds doors open for Eames, he picks jobs in cities he knows Eames likes. He occasionally lets Eames pick the music to warn for the kick and doesn’t even complain the time that Eames chooses Madonna's _Papa Don’t Preach_. He buys Eames coffee in the morning instead of making Eames get his own, and he walks on the outside of Eames when they’re on the street.

He’s not warm, exactly, and he still rarely smiles, and never laughs, but when he looks at Eames now, there’s always a hint of surprise in his eyes, like he’s pleased to discover Eames is still at his side.

\---

“What happened?” Eames eventually demands, when he can’t take it anymore.

Arthur blinks at him. He’s holding a lit cigarette, outstretched to Eames. It’s Eames’ fag, stolen and lit and now offered back to him, just as Eames has been craving one desperately.

Eames takes takes the fag away from Arthur before the ash can fall and burn a hole in his trousers.

They’re in Arthur’s flat in Paris, not a hotel, for once. They’re sitting at his kitchen table instead of standing out on a balcony.

“What happened?” Eames repeats.

Arthur ignores the question, lighting a second cigarette and inhaling deeply.

“You don’t smoke,” Eames points out petulantly.

Arthur disproves the point by continuing to smoke silently, looking disgustingly beautiful whilst doing so.

They’ve been in Paris for a week, and Arthur hasn’t mentioned a new job once.

“I’m going to make some tea,” Arthur says once his cigarette is done, making to get up from the table.

Eames stops him, grabbing his wrist.

“I’ll do it,” he says, not trusting Arthur anywhere near proper tea leaves.

Arthur nods, giving up gracefully, and Eames can feel Arthur’s eyes on him, boring into his back the entire time he putters around the kitchen.

When he returns to the table, handing Arthur his hot cup of tea, Arthur smiles at him, and says,

“Thank you, Eames.”

It’s the first time Eames has heard Arthur say _thank you_ for anything.

\---

They have coffee and croissants with Ariadne a week later.

She and Arthur chatter rapidly about her studies and trade information about Dom. Eames spends most of the afternoon in silence, watching them talk, wondering why Arthur didn’t try harder to convince her to join his life of crime when he so clearly prefers her company above most others.

He eventually realizes this line of thinking makes him sound jealous and petty, and he does his best to stop sulking and join the conversation. It’s not Ariadne’s fault she’s lovely and brilliant in a way that is like, and yet so unlike Mal that she’s perfect for Arthur.

When they get up to leave, Arthur goes to settle the cheque and Ariadne puts a hand on Eames’ arm.

“He looks better,” she says, eyeing Arthur significantly.

“Your company agrees with him,” Eames concedes shortly, trying to make it sound like it bothers him less than it does.

Ariadne just rolls her eyes. “I don’t think it’s my company that’s making the difference.”

“Well, I suppose it doesn’t hurt to be away from Cobb. Arthur may be loyal to the man, but lord knows he hasn’t exactly been a ray of sunshine the last few years.”

“I never thought I’d see you be so deliberately obtuse, Mr. Eames,” Ariadne says, making her disapproval known.

He’s always liked that about her. Remarkably blunt, fearless girl.

He appreciates it a little less when she says, “I certainly never imagined you to be a coward.”

Eames shakes his head. “You don’t understand.”

Ariadne eyes him with something like pity, which Eames can stand least of all.

“I’m not sure you do, either.”

\---

When they get home that night, Eames looks at the calendar, and realizes they’ve been partnered for exactly a year. It feels like it hasn’t been that long; it feels like it’s been longer. He can’t decide which.

Arthur lights candles instead of turning on the lamps, and puts a Sinatra record on.

Eames stares at him incredulously.

“I’m thinking of retiring,” Arthur says, ludicrously. “At least from dreamsharing,” he elaborates, responding to the slack look of shock Eames is sure is on his face.

“What on earth would you do instead?” Eames asks, keeping himself from asking where that would leave him.

Arthur smiles wanly, answering it anyway. “Know any good high-end art thieves?”

“Arthur--” Eames begins unsteadily, before Arthur cuts him off.

“Mal always used to say the most frustrating thing about me was the way I always refused to try something if I thought I’d be bad at it. She took great delight in forcing me into new experiences. It’s why she liked you so much. Even if you only managed to make me feel anger or frustration, she loved watching you get under my skin.”

“I know,” Eames says, because he does.

Arthur nods approvingly. “She was right, anyway. I liked the idea of loving her, because Mal was born to be loved. But I liked it even more because I knew I didn’t, really. So there was nothing at stake, it didn’t matter that I would have inevitably failed, that she would always have chosen Dom over me. But it was different with you, even at the beginning.”

“You hated me,” Eames points out, because one of them has to.

Strangely, this just makes Arthur smile. “Only because I knew you didn’t really see me. Because I knew you loved someone I wasn’t, and couldn’t ever be.”

Someone who laughed with abandon, who wore his beautiful heart on his sleeve.

“Well, you certainly taught me my lesson,” Eames remarks dryly, making Arthur smile even more broadly.

It’s a disconcerting, but not unpleasant sight.

Eames looks around Arthur’s flat, his eyes catching on the books and clothes that belong to Eames but have found their way out of his suitcase and onto available corners of the space.

Arthur sobers, taking a strangely hesitant step towards Eames.

“Mal was right about me not wanting to try things I know I’ll be bad at, and she was right about why you made me so angry.”

“Why was that, pet?” Eames asks warily.

“Because you always made me want to try anyway,” Arthur answers simply. “Because you make me want to succeed, even though I still don’t know if I can.”

“All I’ve ever wanted is for you to try,” Eames says, heart hammering in his chest, recalling far too vividly his words in the Los Angeles airport, the first time he said goodbye to Arthur and thought it would be their last.

“I can’t make you any guarantees,” Arthur says, taking another step closer.

Eames shakes his head, words caught in his throat. He settles for closing the distance between them, putting his hand against Arthur’s cheek.

“Just try, darling. Let me take care of the rest.”

Arthur nods, solemn, and they seal the promise with a kiss.


End file.
